I was locating my home
which I remembered was numbered 1305,
and I understood what it might stand for:
either it was the fifth door of a bungalow in a terrace,
or a unit on the thirteen floor in an apartment building.
It was a cloudy afternoon, early or late summer,
in my alma mater middle school,
so I guessed that I must be a teacher and a former student.
Walking on a cement road between rows of homes,
whose residents should have been all familiar faces,
former teachers and schoolmates and present colleagues,
I saw an old classmate whose parents had been our teachers
and the classmate she married to was not my friend,
perhaps we had harbored a kind of puppy love when in the classroom.
I saw her doing housework behind the window,
maybe by the kitchen basin,
and her face flickered twice and smiled once at my waving hand;
behind beans and towel gourds, it looked like
a picture in a flower photo-frame;
but when I walked to the door and asked for her,
her parents came to tell that it was not a right time for her to talk.
My throat was dry and difficult like drought land,
and I asked for her husband,
knowing that they might know where my home was;
but I was told her husband was no at home, although
I heard his whistle.
I backed away from their row, which I found was number 9,
so I walked on, wishing the rows were numbered in a lineal logic.
Four rows further to the north, I did find Row 13,
the last row of bungalows before a piece of wasteland,
but there were only even numbers in chalk between those doors.
This did not much too surprised me, as my premonition
had before the search warned me of the weirdness of my situation.
To the other end of the bungalow district, however,
there was one towering apartment building.
so with the vague faith that that might be where I really lived,
I was there.
Upon entering the empty porch, I pressed the button for Up,
and found the lift did not open but it faced me with a rectangle hole
about a width of one meter less and a height of one meter plus.
Big enough for me to enter.
I came out at the right floor, standing straight
and finding myself among a chaotic scattering of books and papers,
which was amazingly not my home in my memory
but all the litter was definitely mine.
I went to the window and looked out
and was horrified to find that the room was solitarily
floating in the mid-air like a hot balloon
away from the building it should have been soldered into;
I saw the bungalows down there as if half-drowned.
Then, I realized that my room was on the missing 13th floor
of superstitious erasure, a collective unmentionable,
and then I woke up to write it out,
and I had to close my eyes to recall the detailed vividness.
August 26, 2007 p.m.
This is a genuine dream I had sometime in the morning today (August 26, 2007), which I’ve tried hard to transcribe as faithfully as I can.